


A Single Neck

by Lyra33Vega



Series: The Magician's Niece [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Changing Perspectives, Gen, Self-Harm, Someone Caring but Not Really Understanding how Depression Works or How to Treat It, Suicide Attempt, Yelling at Someone After a Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyra33Vega/pseuds/Lyra33Vega
Summary: Finding out you're related to a random stranger is one thing. Finding out you've brought this long-lost relative to  a hellscape of eternal suffering... well, adding that on top of all the other wrongs you've done can take its toll on a man.
Relationships: Maxwell & Wendy (Don't Starve), Maxwell & Wickerbottom (Don't Starve), Wendy & Wickerbottom (Don't Starve)
Series: The Magician's Niece [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773619
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Reference to suicide/suicidal thoughts

As if things couldn’t be bad enough he’d gone and made them  _ oh so very worse. _

He hears the girl--Jack’s daughter,  _ his own niece _ \--walk away, and it’s only when the footsteps are completely mute does he hiss out a choked breath, knees hitting the ground as he hunches over. Black claws scratch at his upper arms, physical pain stabbing through to fight the familiarly twisting and stabbing sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He hadn’t thought much of those he’d lured into the Constant at first--as long as it kept Them at bay, to do what They asked of him, he’d bring in as many helpless people as They pleased. Anything to seem obedient, anything to keep the pain at bay. Higgsbury was easy, having been down that path before, but Wendy…

Even before this realization, back when he’d been watching them all from the Throne, there’d been things--little things, from how she’d rock on her heels to how she fiddled with blades of grass, and especially her interactions with her sister--that had reminded him of his own times with Jack. The same Jack whose daughter he’d _brought here_ and _he’d apparently_ ** _lost_** _one already,_ no doubt Jack was a wreck and _he couldn’t even_ ** _help him then_** and he’d had _no idea_ he was an uncle and-

_ “God, _ what have I  _ done…” _ The answers are numerous and suffocating. It was enough that Charlie had been accidental collateral… just when he thought he’d come to terms with it all, the twisting pain dulling to an occasional twinge, her sister has to come in and tear that wound wide open once more. And to think those were only the ones he knew  _ before _ coming here.

God, this is all his fault…

What’s more, Winona has made her reasons for hating him (all of which are justified, he won’t deny it) loud and clear among the others. If any of them lacked reason to hate him before, they certainly don’t anymore. Hard to hate someone who would drag their own  _ family _ here, after all.

And on top of all the other crimes he’d committed... Why stay around people that hate him? Do them all a favor instead.

=

She’s found that in a place as chaotic as this, order helps keep people sane. It doesn’t have to be too much order, but giving everyone a designated job to do each day, which is written in her planner, helps keep a sort of rhythm for everyone.

Therefore when Maxwell moves to take the razor from the communal chests near the fire-pit, Wickerbottom can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Generally Maxwell keeps to himself (much to her relief), giving him minimal reason to come to the main camp save for dropping off supplies. That aside, of all the tasks he’s been assigned (usually gathering wood, stones or digging up graves), shaving Beefalo isn’t one of them. So what does Mister ‘Clean-Shaven’ need a razor for?

_ “Ahem.” _ The magician flinches, but meets her eyes with an even (if not tired) expression. This close to him she can see his usual scowl is… tired? Dejected?

“Somethin’ the matter, Wickerbottom?” He’s trying to keep his tone flat, voice quiet, but she can hear the exhaustion in his voice as well; must have stayed up reading that…  _ book _ of his again (though she hesitates to call it such, with the…  _ energy _ around it, for lack of words).

“Actually yes. Quite a few ‘somethings’.” She puts down her book on  _ Birds of North America  _ in exchange for her planner, opening it to today. “Firstly you’re scheduled for mining more stone, mineral and metals; in fact, you were supposed to do that  _ two weeks ago.” _

“Haven’t felt up to that.” The answer makes her brows knit together and she frowns--both because of the interruption and the  _ gall _ of him to just say he ‘hadn’t felt up to that’ when they were in a  _ life or death situation,  _ **_daily_ ** . ‘Haven’t felt up to that’  _ indeed. _

_ “Secondly _ , Higgsbury is supposed to shear the Beefalo, which thirdly is a  _ night activity _ . So-”   
“Has he yet?”

His question gives her pause, and she scans through her planner to find…

“Well… no, he hasn’t for a few days-” almost a week even, “-but we had that Hound attack and he and Winona have been working on her catapults after the last one got destroyed.”

“But how many days do we have till winter?”

The condescendingly raised eyebrow of his  _ shows _ that he knows as well as she does how many days, and she closes her planner rather loudly (and carelessly, she can hear one of the pages fold wrong and it makes her  _ cringe _ ).

“Eight days,” she answers flatly, opening the planner once more to smooth out the accidentally folded page. “Are you volunteering to shear them while collecting stone?”

“Not ‘while’ but can have enough wood to camp near those…  _ things _ …” She hums lightly in amusement at the disgusted expression on his face before he continues. “Besides, there’s rocks in that field, yeah? Two birds with one stone.”

“Hm… I suppose s-” She’s cut off by the realization, her eyes meeting the magician’s smug pair.  _ “You-!!” _

“It’s funny and ya know it. Later pal!” He turns to leave her sputtering over the pun, but-

“Maxwell, wait.” He looks over his shoulder as she reopens her planner to write down  _ Stones - Maxwell _ and add  _ Wool _ next to it in parentheses.

“Hm?”

“A couple days ago, Wendy came back to the camp early in the morning.” She knows the magician loves to give himself an air of mystery and being unreadable, but the way he stiffens as she mentions it is hard to miss. “Her right knee was badly scraped--a shallow wound, but… would you know how she got that?”

“Well… yeah. Bandaged it myself,” he answers, and Wickerbottom had noticed it was bandaged; not very well mind you (no poultice, which would have protected the wound from further infection better than the makeshift grass bandage) but enough to protect it at a basic level.

“Would you know how it happened then?” There’s a pause, and the way his eyes shift away for the briefest of seconds tells her not to believe his answer.

“Spiders. She told me she’d been going after spiders with her sister.” His voice is calm and even, yet has a hint of  _ please don’t ask _ along the edges; a near-identical answer to what Wendy had told the adults when questioned, save for claiming she’d bandaged the wound herself (though considering the others’ opinions, she can understand  _ why _ Wendy didn’t mention the magician).

“Mm. Very well. I thank you for looking after her,” she admits, “but little tip: putting a poultice on after using the salve will help keep contaminants out of the wound better than grass bandages.”

“Didn’t have the supplies for those, but I’ll keep it in mind,” and with a shrug he’s gone, razor in hand. Wickerbottom sits back down to continue reading her book and the daily order resumes.

=

It’s midday by the time Wendy and the others return; while Wigfrid and Wilson start bickering about how to divide the meat--because “A warriör needs tö feast upön the flesh öf her felled föes!” does not agree with “We  _ all _ need to eat  _ some _ of the meat Wigfrid, you can’t hog it all!”--she and Abigail walk towards Maxwell’s camp. Hopefully, enough time has passed that the two of them can talk with him, properly confront what they had learned-

Except the camp is empty.

_ Maybe… he went out to get supplies? _ Abby suggests; Wendy can tell she’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of worry in her sibling’s voice.  _ I mean, Wilson and Miss Winona were complaining about needing rocks… maybe one of the others saw him. _

And so they head back to the main camp. Not many of the others are there right now: Wigfrid and Wilson are still arguing about how to divide the meat, WX is sorting chests, and near them, Miss Wickerbottom is teaching the new Merm-child (Worm? Wyrm? Wart? Well, Wart was close) something in a book.

Considering two of them are busy, and the automaton has always been rude to Abby (though she’s always been quick to wreak revenge upon their bees), that leaves but one option.

As she walks towards the two, the fish girl  _ (Wurt!) _ looks up and notices them first. The scaled face breaks out into a grin, waving at the two.

“Hello sad girl! Hello Abby-gill!” Wendy nods her greetings to the smiling Merm girl as Wickerbottom looks up. “Want to read story with us, florp?”

“Thank you Wurt,”-no negative reaction, so that  _ was _ the right name… “-but no, I was wondering if either of you have seen Mister Maxwell.”

“This morning, yes,” Wickerbottom answers, showing Wurt a picture in the book she’s holding (something about birds, judging by the cover). “Told him to replenish our stone supply and to shear the Beefalo. He should be back with those supplies in the morning, dear.”

“INVALID.”

Both girls jump at the sudden interruption, turning to stare at the robot.

“Invalid… why?” Wendy asks cautiously; she’s holding Abby’s flower in her hands, just in case she has to call back the ghost currently squinting dangerously at the mechanical being.

“THE FRAIL HUMAN WAS LAST SIGHTED IN OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF BOTH RESOURCES,” WX-78 drones, tossing a broken kazoo over their shoulder. “HAIRY MEAT CREATURES AND STONE STRUCTURES ARE EAST. THE FRAIL HUMAN WAS LAST VIEWED WESTWARD.”

“West?” Wickerbottom repeats skeptically. “That’s odd, there’s nothing there but frog ponds. Why would he take the razor there?”

_ Take the  _ **_WHAT?!_ **

Merm, human and artificial being all start a bit at Abigail’s outburst (well, screaming to them) as a cold weight settles in Wendy’s stomach. Memories start to resurface, barely days after Abigail’s passing, seeing her father in the bathroom just… staring at the razor in his hand, moments before noticing Wendy was there.

_ “If the world had a single neck...” _

She’s running before she even realizes it, doesn’t register that someone is running after her. Not until she trips over something, sending her sprawling on the ground.

“Wendy,  _ careful!” _ Wickerbottom helps her stand before the librarian looks at the object that tripped her, a dark blue backpack with a silver buckle. “Maxwell’s bag--he’s bound to be close dear-”

But she isn’t listening,  _ can’t _ listen, because there’s a figure several feet away, right in front of one of the ponds, and she bolts toward him.

His back is to her, but the closer she gets the brighter the light reflects off the flint, almost grinning at her tauntingly.

_ You love the idea of death so much, don’t you? Why try to prevent it? Everyone will die, after all, why should his loss hold any significance to you? _

She can’t tell whether she or her sister screams out.

=

He’s thought of doing it before, even testing how much pressure one would need for this, but apparently  _ thinking _ about offing oneself is apparently very different from actually  _ doing _ it. So when he first heads here to the ponds, so sure of what he’s about to do that he drops his bag on the way, he thinks it’ll be quick, efficient and done with before he has time to think about it.

So he’s more than a bit angry at himself when he realizes hours have passed and he’s staring at the murky waters in front of him, his _still alive_ reflection almost taunting him.

“Fuck’s sake, how hard can this  _ be?!” _ The open razor is brought up with one hand, the other yanking down the collar of his shirt, cold stone pressed against pale skin as he takes a breath-

- _ both girls are staring at him, in shock and disbelief at what they have just learned, the dead one gaping at him as she hovers next to her twin, bright blue eyes locked with his and-- _

“DAMMIT!” His eyes shut as he pulls the razor down again; there’s the sting of it grazing his skin, but not enough to actually  _ hurt _ and muffle the  _ real _ pain.

Focus.  _ Breathe.  _ One swift motion is all it will take and everyone will be better off once he gets this over with.

He presses the razor into the side of his neck again, ignoring the twinge of pain as it presses into the small cut from earlier.

Eyes shut, a deep breath is taken, and…

**_“STOP!”_ **

A jolt, blood, then blinding pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Blood, References to Suicide/Suicide Attempt

Wendy’s cry escalates to a shriek, and Wickerbottom runs with her to where Maxwell has collapsed. Wendy and her ghost get there first, pulling on the man’s shoulder to get him onto his back. As the librarian nears, she can see the damage the Constant’s former king has done to himself, and she bites her inner lip to stop herself from recoiling--Wendy’s shout has stopped his self-destructive actions, but only somewhat. The razor’s blade is jammed into the side of his throat, but to her (minimal) relief, it doesn’t seem to have cut the internal jugular nor gone through the trachea all the way, though the latter could be due to the cartilage. That relief is cut short when she hears Maxwell’s choked breathing, holding one of his lanky arms down as he spasms. It didn’t cut all the way through, but from the sound of it there may be some damage.

“Don’t pull it out,” she instructs Wendy; the girl has quieted down, but her eyes are still large with fear and panic. She withdraws her hand as Wickerbottom continues, “not yet anyway. Do you have um… well we need something to help apply pressure, a rag or-?”

The little girl quickly shrugs her bag off, rummaging through it and pulling out what looks like the remnants of an old cardigan.

“Yes, that’ll do. There’s some salve in my bag here; put some of it on that.” She’s trying to keep her tone even, not escalate Wendy’s panic even more, but it’s hard to do when one hand is pinning down a man’s arm and the other is at his bloody and partially-cut throat. Here’s hoping she remembers what she read in those medical texts… She’s trying to focus on that more than the warm feeling of someone else’s blood on her fingers, the way broken skin moves under her hand.

“Okay Wendy, I’m going to pull the razor back out. As I start doing that, I’ll need you to press that against the cut as I do so, all right?”

Wendy is silent but nods frantically, the only real indication that she’s still panicking.

“All right, here we go…” Below them, Maxwell jerks and convulses in pain as the razor is slowly pulled out the way it came in, and once it’s fully out of his neck Wendy all but slaps the salve-covered rag onto his neck.

“Good girl, now keep pressing it there, keep too much blood from getting out.” The razor is dropped on the ground for now as she pulls her bag over, digging through it for-

Ah!

“Okay Wendy, be ready to pull the rag away when I say so, then help press this down.” Wide blue eyes look up to her with confusion that vanishes when she sees the honeyed poultice Wickerbottom is holding; the girl nods as the librarian holds the poultice in one hand, using the other to carefully start lifting the back of the magician’s head.

_ “Now!” _ There’s only a split second of cut skin and blood leaking out on display as Wendy pulls back the bloodied cardigan before it’s replaced by the poultice, small bloodied hands pressing it against the wound, stemming the blood flow even as Maxwell gasps and coughs beneath them. Wickerbottom ignores that for now though, making sure the honey-soaked bandages go around his neck properly and keeping them tight enough so he doesn’t bleed out. She uses a stinger as a makeshift pin, only withdrawing her hands once she’s certain it won’t come apart.

Now that the crisis is mostly averted, she focuses on the victim in full--with his neck bandaged, he’s no longer gasping for gulps of air (probably a reflexive, base instinct of his body trying to keep itself alive despite the clear evidence he was attempting the contrary) but rather taking in shuddering breaths, occasionally interrupted by a cough. There are also sounds that could possibly be words, but he seems far too out of it from pain and blood loss to connect them into understandable speech patterns. Wendy is now holding one of his hands in both of hers, and the look on her face is… heartbreaking, to say the least. While she herself has no special fondness for Maxwell--the man is rude,  _ very _ full of himself, and makes no attempts at righting things with the others whom he’d wronged--she will admit his knowledge of the Constant is useful and that his contributions to the group’s survival, especially materials, are many. On top of that, he has always seemed to understand the morbid child, undaunted by her obsession with death and ghosts. So the possibility of losing that one person who understands her way of thinking… must be horrifying for the poor girl.

“Wendy.” The girl starts a bit as Wickerbottom puts a hand on her shoulder, and they’ve both just gone through a lot and their hands are covered in blood (blood that is  _ still warm _ , though she tries to ignore this fact right now) but she’ll be damned if that keeps her from giving the child a kind, if tired smile. “He’s going to be all right. It’ll be an effort to bring him back to camp though…”

“THE FRAIL HUMAN HAS SURVIVED. WHAT A PITY.” She jumps a bit, turning to look up and see WX’s hollow eye sockets staring down at the three of them. Behind her she can hear angered whispering, though whether it is Wendy or her ghost-sister she’s not sure.

“Now isn’t the time for that WX. Could you please help us get Maxwell to his tent?”

“HA. HA. MENIAL LABOR IS BENEATH ME.” Her teeth grit at their dismissive behavior. Do they not realize someone has almost  _ died?! _

“This is  _ serious! _ We just need you to take him to his tent so he can heal.”

“EVIDENCE INDICATES THE FRAIL HUMAN WAS INITIATING HIS SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE.” The robot points to the bloodied razor, and she kicks herself for not properly cleaning it sooner. Should she even bother with cleaning it or just throw this one away and make a new one untouched by blood? “I FIND YOUR DESIRE TO ABORT HIS SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE FUTILE. HE WILL LIKELY INITIATE IT AGAIN SO WHY-”

_ “Shut up.” _

Wickerbottom freezes, turning away from WX to stare at Wendy. Her ghostly sister floats next to her, eyes glaring absolute daggers at the mechanical being as Wendy shakes lightly, her eyes locked with Maxwell’s out-of-focus ones before she looks up. Her face is streaked with tears ( _ when had she started crying?? _ Wickerbottom asks herself worriedly), but her expression is cold.

“It would be much easier for you to just say you can’t do it.” Her voice is small, cracking and hoarse, but still with a coldness eerily like Maxwell’s. WX emits a choked staticky noise from behind the librarian; apparently Wendy’s jab caught them off-guard. “One of the other survivors can probably lift him better than your weak frame.”

“UNTRUE!” For a being that claims to not have emotions, she thinks they sound pretty insulted right there. WX’s usual drone has escalated to a higher, angry tone bordering a screech. “MY FRAME IS OF REINFORCED STEEL! I AM MORE THAN CAPABLE OF LIFTING HIM, FOR HE IS THE MOST FRAIL AND WEAK OF ALL YOU FLESHLINGS!”

“Then  _ prove it.” _ They approach wordlessly upon being challenged, picking up the wounded man effortlessly (though not gently, and she cringes as she hears Maxwell groan in pain; she makes a mental note to check their stores for Mandrakes once they return). Wickerbottom looks at Wendy--who at this point has let go of Maxwell’s hand, both of hers clenched into fists--and gives her a nod before returning her attention to WX.

“This way.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Slightly triggering content, including Character A yelling at Character B after B's suicide attempt

There’s a dull, throbbing pain as he slowly comes to; the reflexive cough that attempts to help clear his throat instead doubles, no, _triples_ the pain, one cough becoming several. The sudden press of a cold rag against the pain in his throat, while welcome, causes him to start for a split second until sleep-fogged eyes meet bright blue.

 _Wendy._ Equal parts relief and dread mix in his stomach. He hears her say… something, but he can’t fully focus on what she’s saying, all the words jumbling together in his head. Whoever is on his other side hands her a bowl of something; he moves to sit up only for his body to respond sluggishly, nearly falling back onto the… feels like a straw bedroll under him. A stranger’s hands catch him before he completely falls and he’s able to sit up enough to accept the bowl from Wendy. The smell of lobster helps wake him up more; not quite a lobster dinner but bisque is just as good right now.

The whole time he’s eating, he thinks about what to say to her; had things gone a little differently this wouldn’t be a problem yet… part of him is glad he has a chance to, if not be forgiven--he’s done far too much for that--then at least he can say his piece. Out of everyone here, she at least deserves that much from him.

However, he doesn’t have a chance to start once the bowl is empty before his ear is yanked, pulling him to eye level with a _very_ livid Wickerbottom.

“You are hereby _banned_ from going within _arm’s length_ of the razor!” Her voice is sharp, borderline shrill, and were she to yank on his ear any more it would probably pop off (though with how loud she is, and how much his head is pounding, that actually might be a reprieve). “If you are to go _anywhere_ with a sharp instrument I want one of the others to go with you so as we are ensured it is used for its _proper purpose_ and NOT for self-harm! _Is that_ **_understood?!!!”_ **

He does little more than stare up at the librarian as she goes on her tirade, thinking his answer over _very_ carefully before daring to open his mouth.

“Sooo do I start writing down the same sentence five hundred times _now_ or do you have to rap my knuckles with a ruler firs _\--OWOWOW OKAY IT WAS A_ **_JOKE_ ** _WOMAN!!!”_

Fortunately for him the librarian stops twisting his ear and lets go as he falls into another coughing fit, though her voice is still stern once he stops. 

“I will _not_ hesitate to schedule therapy sessions with you Maxwell! In fact I might as well do that _now,_ as melancholia _that severe_ can _not_ just--just randomly occur that way!”

He can’t stop the grimace that creeps onto his features at the thought of unloading… essentially _everything_ onto a stranger, let alone one that barely tolerates him. She is better at masking it than--well okay, she’s the only one to make an _actual effort_ to mask her dislike of him, but he’s not an idiot. “That is… appreciated but _really_ not necessary-”

“Oh but I think it is.” She lets go of his ear, crossing her arms and glaring at him with a frown only possible for a mother. “Not only that, but I think it is _long_ overdue! Especially if you were going to do… _that_ to yourself. You need to talk to _someone_ about whatever is plaguing you before we have a repeat of-”

“He could talk to me.”

He and Wickerbottom both turn to the two girls, the living one nervously fidgeting with her hands.

“I-I mean… I would not wish to force him,” Wendy starts again, her sister ( _his niece,_ he remembers, they’re _both_ his nieces and he didn’t even know one of them _died--_ ) floating behind her. Abigail stares at him, hollow, unblinking, but no malice is there. If he has to guess actually, her blank expression seems… curious? Hard to tell when he can’t make out other features. “But if he wishes to talk about his… worries, I would not be adverse to listening to him.”

All of this, and she was still willing to help? He’s about to object, but the librarian does so for him.

“Wendy… no, it’s appreciated but Maxwell… how do I--if he has enough mental stress to think about--about ending himself like that… then it’s a matter to be settled with grown-ups.” He can see Wendy’s expression wilt, blue eyes downcast and again she fiddles with her fingers; next to her, Abigail seems indignant, about to screech something. Wickerbottom probably notices the latter, because she starts trying to back-pedal a tad. “It’s not that the concern isn’t appreciated dear! It’s just--it’s such an adult topic that it isn’t worth worrying a young girl o-”

“Wickerbottom, enough.” She halts and looks at him in confusion, and honestly he’s not even sure why he’s speaking up but too late now. He sits up a bit more straight, lightly rubbing his neck. “Were things different I’d agree with ya, really. You’re right, kids shouldn’t have to carry that sort of weight. But you’re talking as though Wendy doesn’t _already_ carry that sort of weight, or as if _I_ haven’t been dealing with these problems of mine, _for years._ Trust me, this wasn’t just… somethin’ that randomly popped outta nowhere. ‘S not how--what you call it, ‘melancholia?’ Whatever it is, that isn’t how it works.”

There’s a twinge of regret at the look on the older woman’s face--hurt, a bit betrayed, and more of that confusion. She was trying to help him, he knows this, but the way she’s talking to Wendy, a girl whose every sentence has a sense of dejection and waiting for the inevitable, while the ghost of her sister hovers _right behind her_ , as though she doesn’t understand the weight of things...

If anyone in this camp were close to understanding what he’s dealing with, it would be her, bloodlines be damned.

“Mm.” The librarian’s pride is definitely wounded, he can tell just from that note, but to her credit she doesn’t dwell on it for long. “Very well. However, you must know that you can’t tell her _everything-”_

“-And should I be in need of talking to someone about a _legitimately adult_ topic, you’re the first on that _incredibly_ short list.” A blatant lie, as she couldn’t help him with any of the things he’d experienced here in the Constant, but better to let her think he’d turn to her at some point than never at all. This answer seems to assuage her, as she nods, mouth a grimly straight line.

“All right. I’ll check your bandages regularly, but in the meantime you must rest. Your backpack is just outside but do you need anything else?”

“No thank you, just… need to talk to Wendy about something.” There’s suspicion in the old woman’s eyes, but she says nothing as she stands up and heads out from behind the lean-to, leaving uncle and niece alone.

Again he’s struck by Wendy’s resemblance to her father--the wide-eyed nervousness, the light frown as one thumb rubs at the top of another with anxious energy, and even though he can’t see all her features, Abigail is clearly glancing about in agitation, as though waiting for something to leap out at her and Wendy.

All of his planning does little for the actual moment, but taking a breath, he at least knows what words to start with.

=

“I’m sorry.”

Wendy looks up as the silence is finally broken. Maxwell--Uncle William?--isn’t looking at either her or her sister, instead worrying at the grass-woven blanket of the bed roll (not unlike Father when he was uncomfortable with something).

“Not just to you, but to J-... your father as well. I know that doesn’t make up for what I’ve done to either--no, to _any_ of you…” his usually confident and quick voice is now slow, uncertain and… _open_. He’s not making eye contact with her, not out of sneakiness but rather guilt. “And if… if you choose to hate me for all of this, I can hardly blame you. But I… you and Abigail at least deserve an actual apology. Had I--had I known, Them be damned, I wouldn’t have-”

“Don’t.” Finally her uncle looks up to lock eyes with her. If his voice had hinted at the brewing storm of thoughts, then his eyes give a much better picture. She’d long ago thought her heart had dulled when Abby passed, but she feels it twist in pain at the quietly choked-out words, the man’s broken face as he looks down again. The part of her who had suffered in the wilderness, who misses her father, wants to scream at him, beat her hands against his chest and take all the suffering she’d endured out on him. And yet… Looking at everything now, with the new perspective they both have… Not as a rebellious subject looking down on a tyrant, as everyone still seems to perceive, but fellow survivors, pawns in a game where they had no choice--as _family--_

That furious part of her seems very, very small now.

“I’m not mad at you.” His eyes snap up at her again, wounded, guilty, confused, as Wendy carefully considers her next words; comfort was never her strong suit but she... she has to try. “I know you have wronged many, as the King here, but… that is not all you have left. Father… I know that he spoke very fondly of you, and missed-- _misses_ you. And Abby--Abby can… be outside again…”

She hears her sister next to her, but it’s distant, muffled as she remembers strangers in white coats going in and out of their room, one of them talking to Father over the coughing, the _choking_ , and the brief glimpse she had of her sister in her bed, coughing, _reaching_ for her, before-

The light tap on her upper arm jolts her out of the memory, looking up at her uncle again. Her face feels wet, but if he notices he says nothing on it. Instead the hand on her arm moves to her back, rubbing gentle circles. Another quiet cry and she turns to see Abigail’s worried face; were she able to there is no doubt she’d be crying right now, she was always more open about that sort of thing…

“I--I’m fine,” she rubs at her eyes, determined to carry these thoughts to the finish, “it-I just--I know you--you feel as though you cannot be redeemed for all you’ve--you’ve done but-but you can, an-and you’ve done _some_ good and I-”

 _“Wendy.”_ She freezes, breath catching in her throat. The English accent has crept back into his voice, and on top of that, he sounds… _gentle,_ her name coming out quietly as he continues rubbing her back comfortingly. He sounds worried, he sounds caring, he sounds-

_He sounds like Dad._ The crack in Abby’s voice is what breaks her, hiccuping as she curls in on herself, except Maxwell pulls her close, rubbing her back and letting her tears stain his suit as she clings to him. She can feel him shift slightly, and a moment later Abby rests opposite of her, silver tears streaking her ghostly face.

“Shoddy way for a family reunion, ‘f you ask me,” Maxwell grumbles. Abby giggles, and even through her tears Wendy can’t help a tiny smile.

=

She looks up at the sound of someone approaching, her tired eyes locking with the magician’s odd pair as she hands him a plate.

“Meat balls? Really?” She rolls her eyes as Maxwell sits down next to her, in front of his firepit, before returning to her book.

“The best I could do with what was in your ice box. Where’s Wendy?”

“Asleep in the lean-to, and her sister’s with her. They both deserve it, after today.” It’s only at the corner of her eye, but she can just barely see Maxwell rub at his neck gingerly.

“If you need a cold rag, there should be a few in the ice box as well.”

“Mm.” He’s gone briefly, only a minute or so, before he’s sitting back down, keeping a hand up to press the rag to his neck. “So. How much did you hear?”

“Wh--I-uh, I-I don’t know what you mean.” She hopes the flinch wasn’t noticeable, but the look he’s giving her (not unlike a look she’d give her own children at times) tells her the jig is up.

“Don’t try lying to me Wickerbottom, we both know who is better at that here.” His tone gives no room for deflection and she sighs; well, it was worth a shot.

“Oh fine,” she sighs, adjusting her glasses. “Enough to know you’re acquainted with the girls’ father, enough so that you feel remorse for bringing the girl here. Though why would you bring her if you knew that…”

“Recent discovery,” he explains after swallowing a mouthful, “on both our parts. Apparently the American postal service is absolute shite.”

She fights down the urge to admonish him for his language. As tempting as it is, not only is he an adult but also explaining things she’s been curious about since Wendy returned to the camp at the crack of dawn, and she’s not going to risk the opportunity closing up on her.

“Inconsistent correspondence then?” she asks; there’s a scoff from the former ruler.

“More like ‘cut off entirely’. Thought I’d died after an accident occurred, the poor bloke. Never got my letter.” 

Her brows furrow slightly; he must be referring to Wendy’s father, but what connection could they have to elicit such concern?

“Ya know, if you have a question, you can just ask it.” She blinks as his comment is acknowledged, eyeing him cautiously.

“How do I know you’ll respond? _Truthfully?”_ She gets a noncommittal hum from him in response.

“I might, I might not. _But,_ considering you just saved my neck, I’d say the odds are in your favor for once.”

“I suppose so. Alright then, h-” She halts as the pun finally registers, one eye twitching as she glowers at the man currently sporting a shit-eating grin. “You. Are. _Awful.”_

“Thought that’d already been established.”

“Hmph. Well anyway, how do you know Wendy’s father?” He doesn’t seem surprised by the question, simply giving a light shrug.

“Twins run in the family.” She almost objects at the riddle of an answer, but he interrupts her by kicking a log into the fire pit. “Anyway, shouldn’t you babysit the others before something goes wrong?”

Almost on cue, an explosion can be heard, with what sounds like Willow and Winona’s voices quickly following. 

“... like that?” the magician adds; she wants to press more, ask what exactly his answer _means,_ but one look at his face tells the older of the two that he’s said as much on the topic as he’s wanted to. And besides…

“Send Wendy over when she’s awake.” He nods at her order as she stands up, tucking her book back into her bag and heading off to break up the newest argument.

Besides, a part of her knows what that answer means.


End file.
